Amy Lake (17 page)

Lord Freddie maintained an offended silence for a week; then he wrote a long letter of reproach. 

My dearest Reggie, you cannot wish me to be reduced to this!  Lady Celia

would be your Sister as well as my Wife—just think of it!  The advantages

to our Family in consequence cannot be numbered—

I replied to each of these letters promptly and in the same manner.  Aunt Sophie was a kind and generous hostess.  I was enjoying my stay in Bath.  I thanked them for their concern.

* * * *

As I have said, it should not be supposed that I cared nothing for my family’s good opinion, but ironically, these letters had the opposite effect from that intended.  Each time I began to miss London—and I did, I missed riding in the parks, I missed dancing and
musicales
and my friends, particularly Cassandra—and each time I began to think that marriage to Lord Davies would hardly be the end of the world, certainly I could apply myself, I could
make
him love me, I could ensure that he never regretted marrying me of necessity—then a letter would arrive.

And I would remember my true situation.  I would remember Lord Freddie’s brandy and the earl’s threats, and I would think of the viscount falling in love—with someone else.

* * * *

I soon learned that my aunt was a sort of
eminence grisée
, if you will, among the habitués of the Bath pump rooms, applied to by both women and men for all manner of advice.  It seemed to make no difference if I was nearby during these confidences, and so I heard everything.

One afternoon a Mrs Polkinghorne sat down next to us, and took my aunt’s hands in her own.

“Sophie,” she said.  “I do not know what to do.”

The problem, as she explained, involved her daughter Maisie.  I had been introduced to Miss Polkinghorne only a few days earlier; she sat apart from us now with a mulish air, refusing to look in her mother’s direction.

“Ah—Maisie’s young man, I imagine,” said my aunt.

“She insists they will marry.  But Mr Howarth’s family suffered a terrible loss, you know—”

I did not know, but Aunt Sophie must have, as she merely nodded.

“—and he’s a charming young man, but I cannot imagine how they will live!”

“Mr Howarth has no trade, is that so?”

“Unfortunately not.  He was to have purchased a cornet’s commission, but ’tis quite impossible now.”

A cornet’s commission I understood—’twas a young officer’s rank in the cavalry—but I was unused to talk of trade as an advantage.  Interesting.  Bath was certainly a new world.

“And Miss Polkinghorne will consider no other?”

“She says that she would throw herself into the Avon first,” replied the woman.  “She says that her engagement to Mr Howarth is understood to be nearly a certain thing, and if she changed her mind now ’twould expose her to ridicule.”

I risked a quick glance at the girl.  Her expression had not changed.

Aunt Sophie and Mrs Polkinghorne discussed the possible solutions to this dilemma at some length.  They were few, and from the rest of the conversation I learned that Miss Polkinghorne had two younger sisters, that none of the three girls had more than the hint of a dowry, and that bread and milk did not arrive at one’s doorstep for free.

This last bit of intelligence I knew, of course, no matter how many times my mother and father had feigned ignorance.  The tradesmen complained when the
ton
did not pay, but extended them credit more often than not, and I wondered what it was like to have one’s choices constrained by the actual need for food.

What had love to say against hunger?

So I could not fault Mrs Polkinghorne for her concern.  And I had no answer for her daughter.

* * * *

That same evening Aunt Sophie seemed in a conversational mood.  She was convinced of the health benefits of walking and so, in addition to the regular trips to the pump room during the early afternoon, she was in the habit of a long evening stroll along the banks of the Avon, proceeding from Sydney Place down Bathwick Street, and past old St. Mary’s church to the Hampton footpath.  We would follow this footpath for some ways, despite the area being rather swampy.

On this occasion she asked me, as she had not before, a number of details about Lord Davies.

Was he a handsome gentleman?  Did I know aught of his estate—did he treat his crofters fairly and—perhaps—even take advice from Mr Mawe as to the garden plantings?

I prevaricated on this latter point just a bit.  Mr Mawe, I said, was no doubt of good reputation in London and I was sure that Lord Davies took everything he read of him to heart.

Excellent.  And was the viscount kind to his mother and sisters?  Aunt Sophie was fascinated with the idea of twins, as she had never met a pair.

“Nor had I, before Carys and Isolde.”

“Do they look exactly alike?”

I explained that they were very similar in appearance, but that you would not mistake one for the other, as neither their hair nor their dress was the same.

“The one is shy, you say?”

“She seems to be.  Although Isolde is lively enough for the two.”

“’Tis not so odd that a man would be concerned for his younger sisters,” said Aunt Sophie, with a sideways look.

I sighed.  “I know.”

“So unfortunate that you’ve taken him in dislike,” said my aunt. 

“Well—”

“Ah, look!” said Aunt Sophie.  “An
entire
clump of candytuft, just over there.  Very pretty, don’t you think?”

* * * *

We continued along the river, watching kingfishers swoop and dive over the water, and often catching sight of a majestic heron standing near the shore.  My aunt said nothing more about Lord Davies, but our brief conversation had made me uneasy—so unfortunate that I’d taken him in dislike, indeed!—and I  searched for a new topic to consider.

“Aunt Sophie,” I finally began, “I must thank you again for taking me in.”

“Not a bit of trouble.” 

“I had no reason to expect such kindness, after all these years.”

“Hmm?”  My aunt was now investigating an area scattered with primrose and violets.  She had, as I discovered from our first walk together, a great interest in the local wildflowers, and was always looking for new additions to her own garden.  Fortunately, this evening we had not thought to bring along a garden trowel, as I now knew that no matter how careful you were, digging in a muddy area left one’s skirts in a fright.

“I must say that I feel very comfortable here in Bath,” I added, chattering on.  “And I do hope I haven’t been too much of a burden—”

She looked up at me sharply.  “Comfortable?” said Aunt Sophie.

“Well, yes,” I said.  “I hope you do not think me forward to say that I feel quite at home.”

“Ah,” she said.  “Of course not, Regina, of course not.  Stay as long as you like.”

But my aunt seemed a bit distracted on our return to Sydney Place, even forgoing another look at a field scattered with cowslip and red campion, which she much admired.

Nor, that evening, did she give me any idea that her plans for the next days had undergone any material change, and so it was with considerable surprise—as I came down to breakfast the next morning—to find her in the front hallway, dressed in an old-fashioned traveling costume, with several bags at her feet.

“Ah, Regina, there you are,” said Aunt Sophie.  “I’ve decided to spend a month or two in Florence.  It isn’t really the best time of year, I suppose, but—” 

“Flo . . . Florence?”  I stared at her, unable to say more. 

“Be a dear and take care of things, will you?”

She gave me a swift peck on the cheek.  And left.

Chapter 31:  On My Own

Florence.  Aunt Sophie was going to Florence.

“She loves Italy,” said Mrs Baxter,   “Always talking about how she wanted to go back.”

“Ah.  Yes?”  I was sitting in one of the morning room armchairs, absently drinking a cup of coffee that someone—perhaps Mrs Baxter, or Janie—had set in front of me.  I had not moved from this spot for some time.  The rest of the household had taken the news of Aunt Sophie’s departure rather more calmly, and were going about their business. 

Not that I had made any outward fuss, or fallen into hysterics.  But inwardly—

Mrs Baxter had joined me and was chatting amiably, to which I suppose I replied in some adequate manner.  

“Fortunate that you’re here, dearie,” said Mrs Baxter.  “She didn’t like to leave us alone, you know.”

“Ah.  No?”

“Not a bit of it.  Emmy—she always said—Emmy, I’d like to go back to Florence, and one of these days I shall.”

“Ah.”

“But she always thought that there should be a lady about the house.  Don’t know why, really.  Although I suppose there are the accounts to be paid.”

The accounts!  I hadn’t given a single thought to the actual running of the house. 

“Come to think of it, she left this for you,” added Mrs Baxter, delving into one of the deep pockets of her apron and retrieving a fat envelope.  She handed it to me.

 I found two five-pound notes, several singles and assorted coins, including a handful of guineas; altogether some twenty-five pounds, which was more than enough to keep 5, Sydney Place in good order for a month or two, seeing as my aunt maintained a very simple establishment.

Thank goodness Freddie isn’t here, I found myself thinking.  We’d all starve.

* * * *

I sat in my aunt’s morning room for another hour, perhaps two, and eventually Janie dusted around me.  Edward sent up inquiries after the night’s supper and I roused myself sufficiently to approve a cutlet and some kind of sauced potato, as my aunt was quite progressive in her thinking about this vegetable.  Mr Elliott—the supposed clockwinder—wandered in at some point and took a nap in the adjoining armchair.

I was in charge of a household of dependents.  I could not leave for London now even if I wished to.  I did not, did I?  I supposed that I could inform the earl of what had happened; Aunt Sophie was his sister, after all, and he was the head of the family.  But my mind disliked that thought intensely.  I would not inflict my father on Mrs Baxter or Edward or Janie.  And heavens only knew what he would think of the Mr Elliott. 

* * * *

In the afternoon a letter arrived from Cassandra, which at the least gave me something else to think about, as Miss Barre had news.  She assured me that the earl and countess were still putting it about that I was in poor health, although more recently there was talk of my recovery, and Cassie wondered if my father had some reason to believe I would soon return.

Although I do not feel much sorry for your parents, they cannot

keep this up forever, you know.  And I have just received a visit from the Misses Davies.  They were quite concerned with your recent illness—

Oh, dear.

—and I believe they were executing a commission from their brother.

Could it be that Lord Davies was truly concerned for my health?  I imagined him at my bedside with head bent in sorrow, tears at his eyes as my heart managed a last few faltering beats—

Do not grieve, my love.  I go to a better place. 

Oh, Regina!  Regina, my darling!

This nonsense occupied me for a few minutes until the thought came that he might simply be concerned for his sisters’ prospects, which would be reduced if I succumbed to . . . whatever I was succumbing to.  ’Twas as bitter a thought as before, but Cassie’s final remark caught me up short; she reminded me of something I had nearly forgotten.

I have put Isolde and Carys off for now, but they are intelligent and

resourceful, so ’twill not last.  And Reggie, Isolde made a special point

of informing me that this business with the Marquess of Glay’s son was

all her mother’s doing (exactly what I told you before—remember?) and

that Lord Cathorn is, in her words, a ‘toad-faced ninnyhammer’

 to whom she would not give the time of day.

Carys laughed at that.  She has a lovely laugh, and really, she is not as

shy as one thinks in the beginning.  Both twins clearly adore their brother, and

I think that speaks well of him, don’t you?

Well, yes.  I did.

* * * *

After a day or two the initial shock of my aunt’s departure wore off, and I was able to do more than move about the house in a daze, and even to answer the occasional question from Edward as to the type of sauce I might prefer for the evening meal.  The staff, as I have said, were remarkably composed, and one might almost think that Aunt Sophie had gone off before, but Mrs Baxter said no, not for more than a day or two to visit a friend in Cornwall.

A day or two was something, I suppose.  At any rate, Mrs Baxter organized, Edward cooked, Janie and Alice went about their business, and Mr Elliott  continued his naps much as before.  He seemed the only person rather confused by the event, and occasionally asked for my aunt.

“She went to Florence,” Mrs Baxter would tell him.

“Eh?  Florence?  Well, that’s all right, then,” Mr Elliot would say, and go back to sleep.

My aunt’s dogs were quite bereft at her absence for a good twenty-four hours, after which they settled down and were content to follow me everywhere.  Aeschylus remained in perpetual motion, Euripides drooled on the carpets, and I tripped over Aristophanes more than once, as he seemed to have an almost cat-like inclination to walk between one’s feet.

We received the first communication from Aunt Sophie within the week, on a day when the only other post was a letter addressed in my father’s fist.  I put the latter aside and applied myself immediately to Aunt Sophie, removing the remnants of a crumbling wax planchet with an impatient fingernail.

My dear Regina,
wrote my aunt,

I managed to reach Paris in good order and must

say that the French are eager to see English pounds